’ As the man whose driveway Nancy plowed across and who identified himself as Steve Brandon helped her up to his house, he was asking her if she was in pain anywhere else, but she said she didn’t think so. ‘Still, we’d best call Doc Watson—they live a couple of driveways down—and ask him if he can come over and take a look at you. Do you have AAA?’ ‘Eh, no, no, I’m sorry, I don’t,’ Nancy answered. She was still feeling a little woozy. ‘Guess I’ll call Joe Timberman then,’ Steve said. ‘He’s got the Exxon station up on Maple. Maybe he can bring his truck over and take your car over there at least for tonight. When that’s taken care of, I’ll drive you home.’ When they entered the house, Steve’s wife was there, looking concerned and putting her arms around Nancy and helping her to a chair between the fireplace, where a fire was flickering, and a lighted Christmas tree. It was clear that Steve had been assembling toys for young children hopefully abed and at least pretending to be asleep. Though the Love Library was packed most of the time, there was little demand for the things I'd be looking at. Gillespie hadn't published anyplace obscure. And I'd be nearer the scene of the crime. (I wasn't sure that that was meaningful, but it seemed to loom large in detective fiction.) And one never knew -- I might get to talk to someone worthwhile."OK," I said. "But let's not eat on campus, I don't think I can stand that more than once a week. There's that Chinese place on El Cajon and we can get there in a few minutes." Fine," Jim responded. "Meet you at my office at noon or a little past." We went back to our dinners."Was there anything interesting in the book?" Karen asked."Well, the beginning reads like about a thousand other dissertations on the eighteenth century. But the subject matter intrigues me. At times this afternoon I thought I could see a thread running through all his titles and subjects. But not having known him and having read only a bit of the material puts me.
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